


Memories

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, CPTSD, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Emetophobia, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, PTSD, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18843031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: He didn’t remember Muffin. Or if they even had a telly. Or if he ever heard of the show from school friends. He didn’t remember his fifth birthday either. He didn’t remember what his favorite toy was as a kid. All he remembered was work boots stomping on tile. A glass cup smashing on the ground. Big hands. Big hands. Around his thr-Roger took his beer glass, a shaky hand bringing it to his lips, downing the whole thing with two painful gulps.He wiped the foam from his upper lip, praying there wasn’t any panic in his eyes.“Never heard of it,” he said before asking the bartender for a round of shots. The first of many that night.





	Memories

**Author's Note:**

> My blog is Disabled-Queen-HC on tumblr.  
> Anon asked: Could I request some hcs or positivity for Queen with memory loss due to CPTSD?

“You all remember the show that was on when we were kids with the donkey?” Freddie asked, swirling the wine glass in his head.

Brian popped up from his stool at the bar, eyes sparkling, “Yes! The mule! What was it’s name? It was a puppet wasn’t it? A ghastly one too.” 

John drained the last of his beer before saying, “Muffin the Mule?”

“Yesss! That’s it! Wait how did you remember that? You were just a tot when it finished airing,” Freddie asked with furrowed eyebrows.

John shrugged, poking his temple. “Got a good memory,”

“What about you, Roger? You remember that freakish mule?” Brian asked, swaying a little to the radio playing in the background.

Roger froze, hands tightening around his pint. He was hoping if he stayed quiet, they wouldn’t ask him about the damn donkey. But of course they did.

He blinked, mind whirring to the past, a place filled with holes and craters. Black holes where memories should be. Punches of nothing where a childhood, laughter and toys, should be. 

He didn’t remember Muffin. Or if they even had a telly. Or if he ever heard of the show from school friends. He didn’t remember his fifth birthday either. He didn’t remember what his favorite toy was as a kid. All he remembered was work boots stomping on tile. A glass cup smashing on the ground. Big hands. Big hands. Around his thr-

Roger took his beer glass, a shaky hand bringing it to his lips, downing the whole thing with two painful gulps. 

He wiped the foam from his upper lip, praying there wasn’t any panic in his eyes. 

“Never heard of it,” he said before asking the bartender for a round of shots. The first of many that night.

♚

“Blimey, Rog, you really outdid yourself tonight,” Brian grumbled as he and John tried their best to carry a slurring and wobbling Roger back to the flat. 

Roger just giggled, head hanging limply, feet dragging behind him. 

“And you could’ve paid for you tab y’know. Nearly made me declare bankruptcy, you bitch,” Freddie added, frowning at his wallet in his pocket which was a bit too light for his preference. 

_I wish I never married your bitch of a mother. Then you would’ve never been born!_

Roger shivered but started to laugh uproariously, his whole body shaking. “Promise to not hit me, Fred?” Roger managed to say between his fit of giggles.

Freddie rolled his eyes at his friend’s drunk antics. “I don’t fancy corporal punishment, darling,” 

“Wish dad could’ve said that himself,” Roger said with a snicker, slumping further down in his friends grips.

Brian and John struggled to hoist him back up, Brian shaking his head all the while. “What are you blubbering on about mate?” he asked as he readjusted Roger’s arm around his neck. 

“Muffin! I don’t remember her,” Roger answered, although none of them could decipher how that made any sense. 

“Yeah. I remember you said that earlier. No b-” John was cut off.

“I don’t remember nothing!” Roger said, breaking out into giggles. 

“‘Cause you’re drunker than a skunk, Rog,” Brian said.

Roger shook his head, lips pressing together. “Nu-uh. I don’t remember shit. ‘Cuz me dad beat me too much. Uh-huh,” Roger tried to use his finger to hush himself, as if to say this was all a big secret, but he ended up pressing his finger to John’s lips. 

“I beat you were one naughty kid,” Freddie said, only imagining how rambunctious and obnoxious a 4 year old Roger Taylor could have been. His poor, poor mother.

Roger’s tone suddenly changing, the laughing abruptly stopping, his face melting into something serious. There was a glint in his eye that made Brian shiver. 

“I was a good kid. Real good. I did the chores. Cleaned my room. The dishes. Ate my vegetables. And he didn’t care. Not even a little. He didn’t care, Freddie. I was so good and he didn’t care,” Roger’s hair hung in his face as he looked down at the moving pavement. 

He remembered his first broken nose at 6. He remembered how the bruises on his arms looked. He remembered what his mom’s screams at 3am sounded like. 

He couldn’t wrack his brain hard enough to find anything else. A single shred of evidence that he had a enjoyable childhood. As if the only thing that imprinted itself into his mind where adrenaline filled moments. Everything else was smudged like wet paint, splattered with blood and pricked with tears. 

There was nothing else. 

Nothing. 

A strangled sob found it’s way out of Roger’s mouth. And then another. The world began to spin dangerously. John’s hand on his neck, the one stabilizing him, felt big. So big. And he was so little. So little. Defenseless. Weak. He was a child. Roger was a child and all he knew was pain.

The first spray of vomit erupted before anyone could react to Roger’s initial cries. 

Everyone panicked, Brian and John setting Roger down gently onto his knees. Freddie ran over to pull his hair out of his face and rub his back. There were echoes of “Are you okay?” and “Roger, it’s alright,” But Roger was too busy upchucking his stomach contents, his thoughts erratic, eyes leaking.

_My dinner’s an hour late. You think I’m happy with you right now, bitch?_

_Why the fuck would you wake me up from my nap? It’s like you want to be beat, you little shit!_

_I stepped on one of your toys. Come here. **I said** , come here,  **Roger**!_

His stomach was empty, but he kept forcefully retching, wanting the memories to spill out of him to join the puddle of stomach acid before him. Nothing would come up.

Roger let out a frustrated cry, arms shaking. “I can’t remember Muffin the Mule! I can’t remember it! I can’t remember anything! I can’t remember anything!!!”

He was covered in tears, snot and spit, quaking as he screamed his throat raw above his own waste in the middle of the road. The three others huddled around him, hesitating on what to do. They had a vague idea of what was happening, but they’d try to help the best they could. 

There was hands on the small of his back. Fingers running through his hair. Feather light squeezes on his shoulders. Hushes, whispers and coos. Roger wanted to fight it. He wanted to stay here until he screeched his throat raw, until he died, but he was unable to fight the comfort. He found himself melting in their touch. Melting away. Until his eyes fluttered shut. Until he didn’t remember what happened next.

♚

There was sunlight sneaking into the otherwise dark room through a crack in the curtains. The air smelled like toast and bacon. 

Roger’s eyes fluttered open, bleary and confused. But he was so warm and comfortable. A strange mix of emotions to feel. He went with it though, snuggling deeper into the blankets, head sinking into the fluffy pillow. 

He was ready to drift back asleep, uncaring of where he was or what happened when the softest touch landed on his side. He cringed, but it was accompanied by an even softer voice.

“Roger, don’t worry, it’s me,” Roger relaxed when he heard John whisper. He rolled over in bed to find John laying in bed next to him. He was still in his clothes from the night before, all curled up because Roger had unknowingly hogged all the blankets.

“They put me on ‘Roger watch’ cuz I was the most sober,” John said with a quiet laugh. 

The events from the night before came reeling back. The drinking and the stupid mule and the break down and oh god.

Roger broke out into a sweat, panic gripping him. He shot up in bed, ready to jump out and run. To where? No clue. All he knew was that he was terrified. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go. He was supposed to smile and pretend like everything was okay until he croaked. He wasn’t supposed to tell people about that. He w-

“Hey, hey, Rog. It’s okay. You’re fine. Everything is okay. What happened last night..is fine. You take your time. We’re here to listen whenever you’re ready. For now, just relax. We’re gonna take care of you,” John said as he eased Roger back down into bed, brushing some hair out of his face.

Roger just nodded, letting himself be pushed back down, eyes wide. Only then did he realize how tired he was. How his bones were aching, head pounding. 

Just then, the door creaked open, Brian and Freddie walking in. Brian carried a plate of everything a hung over man could dream of. Eggs, toast, bacon, pancakes and a heaping cup of orange juice. Freddie just held a bottle of aspirin, unable to cook himself. 

Roger looked at both of their faces, unable to find an ounce of pity or awkwardness. Just sincere smiles and loving eyes. 

“I…” Roger wanted to speak, but nothing came out. Freddie shook his head, ushering in Brian. 

“Darling, eat up. We have all the time in the world to talk,” he said as he sat on the side of the bed, pinching at Roger’s cheek. 

“Yeah, eat up. I busted out my mum’s pancake recipe for you,” Brian said, handing Roger the plate and glass. 

John hummed, face burying into the pillow, apparently not having slept at all that night. “We love you, mate,” he mumbled before drifting off.

Roger took the food, swallowing hard. Maybe there weren’t words for any of this. Maybe he’d never be able to explain himself or his gratitude. But right now, as he scarfed down his breakfast, Roger hoped he’d remember this moment. 

His past was a vortex that would take years to get over, to move on from. And he’d probably never get any good memories back. But he could make good ones starting from that very moment. He could make memories to last a life time.


End file.
